


My (29F) Boyfriend (29M) keeps getting into fights with a cook at Waffle House

by youll_never_guess



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blow Jobs, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Oral Sex, Strangers, reddit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29855052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youll_never_guess/pseuds/youll_never_guess
Summary: An enemies-to-smut fic based on the popular reddit post "My (29F) Boyfriend (29M) keeps getting into fights with a cook at Waffle House"OP's bf regularly fights a cook who purposefully makes his eggs wrong. "My BF keeps going back and ordering eggs and getting into fistfights with the same cook... it's like [the cook] spends the week learning new ways of preparing eggs to piss my boyfriend off"
Kudos: 5





	My (29F) Boyfriend (29M) keeps getting into fights with a cook at Waffle House

**Author's Note:**

> The post has since been deleted, but still exists on twitter: https://twitter.com/redditships/status/1260126130687881217?s=20

You settle into the stiff plastic of the booth at Waffle House, shifting uncomfortably to avoid a sticky spot on the seat. A bored, worn-looking waitress meanders over. 

“Order?”

You don’t bother glancing at the menu- you’ve been here enough times. “A cup of coffee and a plate of runny fried eggs, thank you.”

She ambles off to the order counter, and hands the order off the to cook. He takes one glance and the meal requested and immediately scans the restaurant’s diners. Your eyes meet, and he glares darkly at you. After a moment, he turns back to the stove and pulls out a pan, starting your order.

You smirk, settling back into the seat to wait for the next movement in the tableau that plays just like this every weekend. Your girlfriend kept begging you to stop but you’d started to appreciate the routine. Every Saturday morning, you’d come to the dilapidated Waffle House, order runny eggs, and the cook would prepare them wrong. From there, the performance evolved- at first, it was just a word to the cook, then the manager… After a while there were verbal confrontations, and the last two times it had gotten physical. Who knew what would happen this week? He could have hired a clown to egg you on this time, for all you knew- but that was part of the fun.

Finally, the waitress brings your plate. Those are NOT runny fried eggs. In fact, they barely look like eggs! Two large round balls of what looks like meat sit presumptuously on the scratched porcelain dish. Tentatively, you stab at one with a knife. It splits open, revealing soft boiled egg, oozing creamy golden yolk from its center. 

You frown, turning to the waitress. “What the hell is this?? I asked for a  _ fried egg _ . Does this look fried to you?”

She sighs, exasperated. “Not my problem, honey. Take it up with the cook,” she gestures towards the kitchen. 

You storm to the back of the room, throwing open the swinging door to the kitchen. The fry cook turns, holding back a smile. “Sir? What can I help you with?” he feigns ignorance.

You brandish your plate of balled meat and egg in his face. “I ordered runny fried eggs. What is this??”

He smirks. “It  _ is _ fried eggs… with a few extra steps. More commonly known as a scotch egg, it’s a boiled egg wrapped in sausage, costed in breadcrumbs and fried. So, it’s a  _ fried egg _ , and it’s even runny, just like you asked. I spent all week learning it, do you like it?”

You’re fuming now. “Didn’t try it. Cause it’s not what I ordered, nimwit. If I ordered a fried egg I wanted a  _ fucking  _ fried egg, not some Scotch bullshit.”

“You didn’t even try it! I put my heart and soul into this dish and you have the audacity to shove it back in my face! Why I oughta-”

“You oughta what?” You rebut, taking a threatening step closer. “I can take you, no problem. I’m gonna kick your ass.”

The manager comes running in, probably alerted by the waitress. “Hey, out of here! I won’t have you wrecking my kitchen,” he pushes the both of you out the back door. 

You stumble into a dim alley, lined with split trash bags and other such detritus. You turn, facing the incompetent cook, stripping off your shirt and slinging in over a metal railing. “Ready to lose, punk?” 

He mimics you, ripping off his stained apron and uniform polo. You can’t help but notice his toned torso and the attractive light dusting of hair across his chest. 

“I’m gonna take you down,” he growls, prowling closer. 

You circle each other for a moment, before you lunge close, swinging a fist at his face. He swipes your hand away, bringing a leg up to kick you squarely in the chest. You stumble back, but quickly regain your balance, before taking a moment to recover your breath. 

This time, he dances close swinging a right hook, catching you squarey in the jaw. You teeter back, disoriented, and your assailant takes advantage, pushing you back and pinning you against the alley's dingy brick wall. He’s breathing heavily, a muscular forearm braced across your chest. 

“Look, man, what the fuck is your problem? Why do you keep coming back and picking fights? You’re just begging to be pushed against a wall,” he taunted.

“Oh yeah? Why do you keep making my eggs wrong? If you want to see me so bad just ask me on a date.” You snap back.

“But this is so much more fun,” he mocked, pushing you harder into the rough brick, inadvertently gently grinding against you as he did so. 

You hadn’t quite realized you were hard until this moment, but a shuddering gasp slipped from your throat as the friction of him against you brought it to your attention. You instantly flushed bright red- it was probably from the exertion of the fight, but it was awkward anyways. 

The cook caught on immediately. “Oh, you want to get  _ physical  _ physcial” 

His eyes unfocused from your face, drifting to your hair. Tentatively, he ran his fingers through it, fluffing it. His eyes dropped to meet your gaze, and you noticed for the first time how they shone a brilliant green. His hand gilded lower to cup your jaw. You froze, nervous, not breathing, as he leaned in to press a cautious kiss to your lips. Your fell eyes shut, and for a moment all you knew were his soft lips against yours. 

_ You have a girlfriend!  _ Your mind shouted, but it was promptly forgotten as his lips moved against yours, sending shivers down your spine. His tongue darted out to lick the seam of your lips and instinctively they opened, giving the man full access to you. He tilted your chin up, deepening the kiss into one that left you gasping for breath. 

Your eyes drifted shut and you melted into him, luxuriating in his hand massaging your silky hair and his damp lips pressing gentle soft pecks down your throat. You tensed slightly as his hands drifted lower, skimming your pecs and faint abs- you’ve never gone this far with a guy before. 

Your eyes fly open and he sinks to his knees before you and begins to nuzzle the tent in your jeans. “I don’t- I don’t think we should... “ you trail off as he licks the imprint of your dick through your jeans. 

He pauses, gazing up at you through his dark lashes, pupils blown. “You don’t  _ think  _ we should… but you want it, right?” You nod vigorously, and he smiles smugly at your desperate response. “Then why shouldn’t we?”

You try to think of why his plump, satiny lips shouldn’t be wrapped around your rock hard dick  _ right now  _ and draw a complete blank. You’ve lost this argument, too, and allow the roll of your hips to communicate your surrender for you. 

He accepts your forfeit with gusto. He mouths over your cock, humming into it and revelling in your ensuing moans. He rubs at your dick firms with his palm, sitting back on his heels to watch you fall apart beneath him. You’re gorgeous like this- head tipped back, eyes shut, mouth fallen open; your mind empty of coherent thought, wrapped around the lovely sensations. 

He tugs down the jean’s zipper with his teeth, pulling your pants and boxers down around your knees, releasing your desperate cock. You gasp as the crisp midmorning air cools the precum gathering on your sensitive tip. The cook takes pity on you, and kisses the clear drops off your cock with his warm lips.

He runs an explorative hand along your shaft, getting a feel for your considerable girth. He spits into his palm, then begins to pump you confidently, using the beads of precum as added lubricant. You moan as he delicately licks at the head of your cock. Unconsciously your hips rock forward, needy for more. He heeds your direction, opening his lips to take your dick into the warm, wet embrace of his mouth.

“Ah, finally.” you hiss. The pleasure threatens to overwhelm you- desperately, you grasp at anything for support. Your fingers wrap around the back of his head, automatically pressing it down further onto your throbbing staff. Obediently, he opens up to you, relaxing his jaw and throat to accommodate for your size. 

Once comfortable, he applies his skills, swirling his tongue along the sensitive underside of your cock. Experimentally, he hollows his cheeks and swallows, sending tremors through your legs. He bobs his head, taking a moment to find relief, before deepthroating you once again. This time, he hums, delivering vibrations that make your spine shiver. Heat builds in your core, and you begin to move his head up and down your length, setting a fast pace. With a particularly hard suck, he has you cumming hard down his throat.

He bobs gently through your high, and you relax your grip on his head. Your hand falls away, breaking the intense moment of intimacy. He pulls off, indelicately wiping a sloppy mess of fluids from his chin. You meet his wet eyes, trying to communicate your thanks for the service. 

“Can I return the favor?” You aren’t sure it’s something you quite want to do, at least for the first time in a dirty alley for a guy you are barely acquainted with. 

He catches on to your discomfort. “Your number is payment enough,” he says, proffering his phone. You accept it, and tentatively enter your information, forcefully ignoring the tent in his slacks. 

You return the device, and he turns to leave. “Wait- I don’t even know your name,” you call to his retreating figure. 

He glances back, and winks. “You’ll be screaming it soon enough,” he promises, and vanishes back into the kitchen. 


End file.
